


Hard Bargain

by Occula



Category: U2
Genre: M/M, Motorcycles, Voyeurism, rattle & hum, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 17:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12964908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occula/pseuds/Occula
Summary: Bono wants to watch Larry. Larry doesn't want to perform. Bono finds a way to get what he wants.





	Hard Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a 'wanking' challenge at LJ, originally posted there June 17, 2006.

Larry thought he wriggled out of it fairly well the first time Bono made the suggestion. They were standing in a corridor backstage waiting for their ride when Bono pulled him close by the front of his denim jacket and murmured it into his ear.

“What?” Startled, Larry tried to pull away and almost bumped his head on cinderblock; he was between Bono and the wall, and Bono was gripping both sides of his coat.

“Shhh!” Bono hissed, darting a look to either side.

Larry knew his face was crimson; he could feel its heat. “You’re mad. I’m not … I mean, I can’t …” he stammered. This time, Larry swore to himself, things would be different. No matter how sure he was that his mind was made up, Bono always seemed to have _his_ way in the end. But not this time.

“Please?” Bono asked winningly, eyes brimming with sincerity, head tilted a little, with a stunningly wicked smile.

“I’m not –” It was Larry’s turn to look both ways before hissing, “I am _not_ going to let you watch … that. Just forget it.”

Bono managed to look disappointed and totally undaunted at the same time. “Just consider it,” he suggested. “It’s just me; you don’t have to be shy around _me._ Don’t you know how much I like to look at you?”

 _Damn him._ “Look, there’s … there’s no way. I’m not doing it and that’s final.”

He was glad their ride was ready just then.

A few days later, they were looking through their long-term itinerary over lunch when he made the mistake of mentioning that he’d heard they had a collection of Elvis’ cars and motorcycles at Graceland. He could practically _see_ Bono’s ears prick up at that.

“I bet I could get them to let you ride Elvis’s motorcycle,” Bono said.

He knew it wouldn’t happen, and he didn’t think Bono believed it either, but he couldn’t help imagining it. “Wow, that – they don’t just let people ride Elvis’s motorcycle, Bono. But …”

Bono’s eyes were sparkling, while Adam and Edge smiled at Larry’s poor attempt to conceal his enthusiasm. “I bet I could get them to let you at least sit on one.”

Him, sitting on Elvis’s bike? “That’d really be cool,” he admitted.

“If I persuade them, you’d owe me a favor,” Bono continued, unable to conceal his smile.

“I –” _Shit._

“It’s only fair,” his nemesis said.

 _Bastard._ “Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly, visions of chrome and power still dancing through his head. “That’s fair.”

He did consider it – it was hard to get the idea out of his mind once Bono had implanted it there – but, he reasoned, it wasn’t like Bono never got to see him, or never saw him with a hand on himself. It happened. It was the _putting on a show_ that Larry shied away from.

He hadn’t realized how badly Bono wanted the favor, though, until that night.

They were in Bono’s room, that night, with a lamp left on as Bono preferred. They were trying a slightly different position, sitting at the edge of Bono’s bed, himself on Bono’s lap. It, this, everything between them was new enough that they hadn’t settled into a routine. He loved to spoon with Bono, although he’d never admit it, or at least not yet. He loved that Bono was bigger and warmer and able to wrap around him, wrap him up in secure, loving arms so that he felt smaller than he was, but not in a bad way. Smaller, protected, cherished.

He was sitting, somewhat awkwardly, with Bono newly inside him, waiting for the pain to ease. As always, gasping, trying to be quiet, burning, sneering a little with the discomfort. One of Bono’s hands was spread on his hip and the other arm was circling his middle. Bono’s mouth was at his neck, and Bono’s voice assured him. “Shhh … hold on, easy, easy … better?”

He panted and nodded and tried to get leverage. Bono scooted a little closer to the side so Larry could brace a foot on the floor, and it resulted in Larry twisting a little, changing the angle.

“Oh, there, mmm.”

“Feel so nice,” Bono hummed, kissing his shoulder, moving beneath him. “How’s that?”

“Good. Yeah, you can …”

His weight drove Bono deeper; he couldn’t hold himself up, but that was all right. It made him grunt when he lifted himself and came down fully. Bono’s voice at his ear was already almost frantic. Larry shifted just enough to lock one arm to support himself; he slipped his other hand around his wet cock. “Ahh. Ahh.”

Bono’s hand joined his, and Larry lost it. Two different-sized hands, awkward, vying for prime location, not quite in sync, and him trapped between all that sensation and intensity. He leaned back and Bono leaned to stare, gasping. “Look, Larry, that’s so beautiful, your hand, _our_ hands,” he babbled. “I want to watch, I want to see you, do it for me, show me please show me ahh God …”

The voice was what did it, and as he came Bono shifted to bite Larry’s ear in that way that drove him utterly mad as he exploded, held and stroked and fucked. And admired.

The voice, the _begging_ , got him to take the request seriously.

After he _had_ sat on Elvis’s motorcycle, especially. He was almost grateful enough to do it spontaneously and not as a quid pro quo, but …

Not that night. Not after he’d felt like a fool, captured on film almost in tears, for God’s sake. He hoped, somehow, that it wouldn’t be that humiliating in retrospect, but just then he felt shaky and embarrassed after being so emotional. That night he wanted only to get drunk with people who loved him, which he accomplished.

It was a few days later, after he and Bono had managed their usual spare key swap. He’d made up his mind to do it that day (unless he lost his nerve), and they’d been drinking (but not too much). He’d been thinking about it, thinking of the _how_ of it, but the plan he came up with, as he walked alone to Bono’s room and tried not to look as though he was sneaking, was pretty simple.

Bono gave him a beer and opened one for himself. They kicked off their shoes and sat close to one another on the bed, talking about their day and beginning to touch a little between drinks. It was when he’d nearly finished his own beer that Larry got up and moved the room’s lone chair, glancing back at Bono to make sure of the placement. He’d put it where Bono could see him clearly but would be a little shaded himself.

_Don’t want to be distracted. I feel self-conscious enough as it is._

“Why don’t you sit over there,” he suggested, trying to sound casual as he tilted the lamp toward the bed.

Bono did, and Larry saw the moment he realized Larry wasn’t following and why. Larry pulled his shirt off and propped himself up against pillows on the bed. He was already hard from anticipation, and it wasn’t that bad, to touch the bulge in his jeans as he finished the beer. Just a guy with a bulge, no big deal, stroking the denim with his fingertips until he was uncomfortable and needed freeing.

He didn’t forget Bono was there, didn’t forget he was being watched, but once he was down to his briefs, the way it felt distracted him away from some of the embarrassment. Not that the self-consciousness disappeared, especially when Bono let out an appreciative little moan, but he could allow sensation to distract him. Soon enough the undershorts had to go.

He found that he wasn’t doing it the way he did when alone, that he didn’t _want_ to do it that way; the circumstances were different, and Bono wanted to see him, so he was going slower, teasing himself as he wouldn’t have done otherwise, in ways that he hoped were visual. By going slower and being a bit distracted he noticed things he usually rushed past. Textures; how his skin fit him; how nice it was to reach down and include his balls, and how Bono liked that. How different it was, both from his solitary practice and from the way Bono touched him.

The thought made him surge in his own grasp. Bono’s hands, larger than his own, blunt and strong. Gentle when they wanted to be. Eager. Bono’s hands were eager.

He thought he was going slowly, that he had a long way to go, but when he heard Bono’s voice he realized he was closer than he thought. When had Bono started talking? He didn’t remember. When had he moved his chair closer? Larry’s hair was hot, his neck was damp; he couldn’t be still any longer, hips arching, feet moving restlessly.

He stopped avoiding Bono and looked at him, locked eyes with him, biting his lip in concentration. Faster now, Bono’s voice urging him, and he couldn’t have held back for all the motorcycles in Graceland. He came so hard he thought he’d actually faint, with that beloved lilting voice crooning and admiring him, came so hard it got on his chest as well as his stomach.

He was still trying to stay conscious as Bono erupted from the chair and tore his own clothes off before leaping onto the bed beside him. He didn’t have the chance to warn Bono away from the mess before Bono was holding Larry’s face in his hands, kissing him, laughing, babbling between kisses. “Larry – beautiful – thank you, that was, that was perfect, you’re perfect, my God –”

“Like it?” he managed, in a moment when his mouth was free.

“My God. I should’ve asked them to let you sit on Elvis’s _bed._ ”


End file.
